Here, There, & Everywhere Subject to Transport
by Wandering Zephyr
Summary: Many are the stories surrounding the Discworld's first tourist, the one they call Twoflower. But equally interesting would be the escapades of another, later tourist. Follow Fourweed as he skips across the Disc, from disaster to debacle and back again...
1. 1: Fancy Lightening Your Load, Sir?

Disclaimer: Out of respect for Sir Terry Pratchett, I'm putting this in, even if I _really didn't_ want to do an out of universe statement. The entire Discworld and everything on it is _his_ intellectual property, not mine. I could claim Fourweed as mine, but I'll play it safe and give the character to him.

That said, I am _very_ grateful that he allows us to write fanfics based on the Discworld. Thank you.

From here on, assume everything to be his, or at least _based_ on his work, because I'm not breaking character for another disclaimer (except maybe at the very end).

P.S. Also thanks to all of the other Discworld fanfic writers, particulary A.A. Pessimal and OldStoneFace, who have shown me that it _can _be done properly.

* * *

**Here, There, and Everywhere… (Subject to Transport)**

Previously Untold, Completely Unauthorised, and Most Importantly _Nearly True_ Tales of the Discworld

(The escapades of Fourweed)

* * *

**Publishers Introduction: From the desk of S. Barker, Editor in Chief of Fallacious Fables Publishers**

Drifting through the great astral wastelands, in a reality often talked about, often seen, but always _completely _ misunderstood, happens to be a great Star Turtle. On its back, four (_possibly_ five at one time) pachyderms, forever moaning about the load (never mind what the Turtle thinks) and _trying their hardest not to slip off_. And rotating away on _their_ backs, blissfully unaware of the irritation the friction of such a movement causes on the poor creatures directly below, is a thin, disk shaped world. The _Discworld_. _Our_ world.

Populated by all manner of beings, fair and foul (but usually foul… or _fowl_, depending on just who's responsible for the spelling), there are nonetheless creatures that are rather a mystery to popular science. The Shadowing Lemma (Because no one bar mathematicians seem to be able to track it down – and they don't tend to be in a condition to relate the experience afterwards), the Clock Building Cuckoo (how _do_ they get it wrong time after time?) and the Pointless Albatross (The name says it all). And perhaps the most mysterious of all, something that bears more than a passing resemblance to the albatross (in that it seems to do nothing but look at things and take pictures), the _tourist_.

On the Discworld, tourism is still a fairly new idea. Indeed, some still consider it to be a "profession". Many are the stories that have been written about the Discworld's _first_ tourist, a rather naive man with a name that roughly translated as "Twoflower". Some, may even be true. But less well known are those who came after, and one in particular had escapades every bit as interesting as his predecessor.

Like Twoflower, he hailed from Bes Pelargic in the Agatean Empire, that far away land surrounded by sea or, where the sea can't be bothered to be cooperative, a great wall. Traditionally, the wall is there for protection – but not in the way you'd expect. Invaders there may be, all seeking the untold riches reportedly found within, but throughout history the Heavenly Guard tended to have other things on their mind. Stepping hard on the inquisitive fingers of those they catch trying to get _out_. Which makes Twoflower's successful exit of the country all the more remarkable.

There exists within the Agatean empire, the now legendary tome "What I did on my Holiday". Despite the great interest of the then Grand Vizier Lord Hong, it spread rapidly throughout the country and caused a small revolution amongst the masses. And when the dust finally settled, barely anyone had not found the opportunity to see what all the fuss was about.

Sometime later, inspired by the stories listed in the tome, another man set about gathering everything he would need for a journey of his own. He had his reasons; he had a similar name, he was from the same place... it _couldn't_ be a _coincidence_. But, budgetary limitations reared their ugly head, and he was forced to acquire certain items from various shady sources – most notably, the "little odds and sods shop behind the office that I _swear_ wasn't there yesterday."

"… uh, so where is it?"

"Right ther… Oh."

Anyway, on a dark and misty night, he made his move. With great difficulty, he scrambled up the wall, carefully eyed the small guard hut and, noting the Heavenly Guard busy with making placards, scurried over and all but fell from the other side.

That was his first mistake… _the gates were unlocked _**(1)**. And pretty soon after, he made his second, bigger mistake. Following in the footsteps of his predecessor (or not, because Twoflower took a _ship_), he crossed half the world and came to Ankh-Morpork,"Citie of One Thousand Surprises".

His name, was Fourweed - strangely adequate, because it well indicated just what he'd come looking for. And he'd caught wind that the quaint Shades were, by dint of some rather curious local morphology, home to a few particularly interesting specimens… Dandelions, Stinging Nettles, Knotweed… that sort of thing **(2)**.

But enough about that. What follows is an (_possibly true_) account of his escapades, in Ankh-Morpork and beyond… if he ever got out of the city and didn't become just another "ethnic minority". We here at the Fallacious Fables Publishers would like to point out that, despite extensive research at great peril to our bananas, that we never managed to discover the true identity of the author. But, as the original manuscripts are to be found in the Unseen University library, behind a bookshelf in a hidden set of galleries that someone has helpfully labelled "L-Space", we have no reason to disbelieve their authenticity. Other researchers are on the case at this very moment, and we will endeavour to provide you the author's identity at the first opportunity, in a revised edition (estimated price AM$ 45, or the equivalent in stamps).

Enjoy!

* * *

**Article 1: Fancy Lightening Your Load, Sir?**

_The Ms. Barker's book of Faux Facts – Travel Edition, has this (and plenty more) to say on the subject of Ankh-Morpork_.

The land approach to the city of Ankh-Morpork, is one that any traveller will remember for a lifetime. It is perhaps, one of the few places in the world where a free lunch is guaranteed – the Sto Plains surrounding the city are used almost entirely for growing cabbage – that most flavoursome of foods – and with such numbers available at any one time, travellers are free to pick one for a nibble.

Closer to, and you may begin to see the two distinct halves of the twinned city. Historically, these have been referred to respectively as _proud_ Ankh, and _pestilent _Morpork, but this is an outright lie. Do _not_ mention it to a local, unless a member of the Watch is visible, in which case someone will be available to help **(3)**.

Another thing you may notice is Ankh-Morpork's most distinctive ranged feature; its smell. A heady odour of truly magnificent proportions, it has its origins in a whole number of factors, including the cabbages. As with the Ankh Morpork nicknames, for your own safety it is best not to believe the tales. The story of an invading army that made it as far as the walls before their nose plugs gave out is slander at its worst.

On reaching the city gates, take a moment to notice the exquisite stonework before passing through and meeting the local guild representatives, who will be happy to assist you.

…

(Ms. Barker cannot be held legally accountable for any damage acquired from actually attempting to pick a cabbage).

…

* * *

"Well, I don't think much of _that_."

A certain gate was currently being "looked at" by a certain, diminutive looking man. His garments were… strange, to say the least. Baggy shorts, not a particularly good choice of clothing considering the local temperature, and the fact it was currently raining. A vivid, short sleeved shirt coloured in the fashion of a sunset. And a hat, a strange thing with a brow only at the front, sitting on top of his head and trying frantically to hide any trace of his pony tailed, straw textured black hair.

"Really, what was all the fuss about?" he continued, staring up at the stonework above him, a rather plain arch with a simple portcullis – no wooden gates to be seen. "Then again, it could be tradit- WHOAH!"

KERSPLACH!

He leant back just a teensy bit too far on his little, makeshift raft of two planks, overbalanced, and fell in the… drink. The hat attempted to float away, and failed miserably. Because, this wasn't just _any_ gate. This was the _Water Gate_, where the river Ankh had the audacity to enter the city. In a way, the man was fortunate. He'd just fallen in the Ankh. But then again, he'd just fallen in the _Ankh_, a river that at times seems to be more soil and loam than water, not to mention a fair helping of dung... or worse.

"Alright Sir?" called a voice. "Need some help?"

The man raised his head from the ooze on which he lay, sinking at such a sluggish rate as to make _slow_sand embarrassed, and espied a scruffy looking fellow staring back at him from the narrow wooden walkway running alongside.

"Ah, the toted Ankh Morporkian trait of generosity, good natured helpers all round! Yes, a rope would be useful!"

The onlooker was notably a long time in responding, looking rather puzzled for such a simple statement. Eventually, by which point the man had sunk another couple of... millimetres, he stuck his finger in his ear and withdrew... something (something _unspeakable_).

"What was that Sir? Didn't quite catch it."

"A rope, if you'd be so kind?"

"A hope? Well I could give you directions to the nearest... temp... Bugger, must be something left in there. Dope? No, didn't look like you meant to compliment me. Mope? Nah, that doesn't sound right... ah! Rope!"

He shuffled out of sight, almost immediately returning with one of the slimiest ropes the sinking (ha, ha) man had ever seen. It was a wonder he managed to get enough of a grip to toss a length of it out, but toss it he did. The end came down by the man, who wrinkled his nose in disgust. Even over the background Smell of Ankh Morpork, this thing stank. Of fish, as it happened, which gave him a fairly good idea of where it came from. Naturally, he was reluctant to touch it, but between the options of getting his hands dirty and suffering a long, humiliating, drawn out death, well, what choice was there?

"So, Tourist are ya?" asked the scruffy fellow, as he hauled the man from the water. "I've seen your type before... a couple of times anyway. From the other side of Sator Square anyway. At least, I would have if the troll hadn't been in the way. So, what were you doing in there anyway? Don't you lot normally come in by one of the road gates?"

"Thought I'd dodge the crowds" the tourist responded. "The name's Fourweed by the way... and I suppose I owe you something, don't I? A little thank you for rescuing me?"

"Oh you don't ne- well, if you feel you have to, then who am _I_ to object?"

Had Fourweed been paying attention, he might have noticed his new friend was doing something behind his back. His hands were moving furiously, fingers waving around like no-one's business. But, being a tourist of the same cloth as his idol (if a little bit more cynical at times), he'd probably have written it off as nerves. And anyway, he had other things on his mind.

"Oh, but I... (he paused, mouth moving silently as if he was struggling to remember which word to use)...insist. It's only courtesy after all. How could I not repay such a fine gentleman?"

_Fine Gentlemen_? Even by Ankh Morpork's "so low we're in the basement" standards, the other was a shabby one. Barely a scrap of cloth on him that hadn't been patched several times. And, it may have been clichéd, but some of the patches did indeed have patches.

Fourweed, almost certainly just wrote his appearance off as the standard local attire. The diminutive tourist raised his fingers to his mouth, and let out a whistle. And then, he waited.

The other man looked around nervously, a strangely hunted look on his face, like someone who thinks he can hear dogs howling in the distance. Not that anything of _that_ sort materialised. And nor did anything else.

"Uh, yeah, lovely voice, thanks for sharing it. I was expecting something a little more material tho-"

The sound of fluttering wings suddenly filled the air, as one of Ankh-Morpork's feral pigeons chose that moment to fly overhead... and settle into a hover. And then it was gone in a puff of feathers, because something else rammed into it... and swallowed it whole.

"Ah, Baggage! There you are!" Fourweed announced cheerfully. A Rhinu, if you please?"

The other man looked up, and immediately back down again. That _wasn't_ a box floating up there, was it? No, surely not. Certainly not a shoebox sized octagonal wooden box hovering on countless little bird wings, all flapping away in a ring surrounding its middle. No, nothing like that at all.

Something fell from above, a book thudded into Fourweed's head. Followed by a bag of dirty laundry, some badly rolled cigars, a battered iconograph... and a couple of shiny golden coins. The tourist's eyes glazed over, which was probably why he didn't notice something fishy going on overhead. Nor the fingers reaching from a shadow and deftly removing one of the coins.

"Ouch..." he muttered. "All the times that's happened, and you still end up with a headache. Where was I?"

Barely audible over the background noise of the city, a few grunting noises drifting from an upstairs open window. The box, despite the noose strangely attached to it, running between it and that very window, wasn't moving.

"Uh... you were just about to... give me a reward?"

Fourweed removed his tourist hat and rubbed his head, wincing at the forming bump. His eyes slowly refocused.

"...Was I..? To him of al... Oh, yes, I was! How could I have forgotten?"

"Search me, Sir!" the scruffy one responded, an undisguised gleam coming to his eyes as the tourist (almost hesitantly it seemed) handed him the remaining coin.

"Out of curiosity, where _is_ the gate?"

...the scruff, busy fingering his new acquisition (while using his peripheral vision to keep watch on various shadows in what can best be referred to as "pouncing range"), took a moment to notice he'd just been asked a question.

"What's that? Rate? No... Ate... not likely... Gate? What gate?"

Fourwind looked at him with a suspicious "you can't be _this_ stupid" expression. Luckily for him, the scruff's education (Thieves Guild, journeyman – failed on grounds of "no common sense") didn't extend to reading faces, beyond the old "happy", "scared" and "run away _now_" expressions. And anyway, he was more concerned that Fourweed might look up. He needn't have worried, because Fourweed was too busy staring at _him_.

So then, events above. Another lasso appeared from the window just to the left of the first, but the box was having none of it... but it was growling.

"Gate. You know, big... (he idley picked up and consulted the book) ...wooden thing. Fits in that arch there."

"Oh, _that_. Off for repairs Sir, just like the one at the other end of the city. Can't say I'm upset. Last time we had a fire and they closed it ta flood the city, I nearly _suffocated_. So, uh, anything else ya need, or should I just continue with my... uh, business?"

Fourweed again missed the furtiveness evident in the man's stance. To be fair, this may have been because his attention was entirely back on the book.

"Actually, I do have one other question. There's this place I'd like to get to. Got a good review in one of the books I'm reading. Could you give me directions to the Shades? **(4)**"

"The _what_?"

"Shades."

The scruff looked at him as if he was mad. Again, Fourweed failed to notice this, head still in the book. A certain "Ms. Barkers book of Faux Facts – Travel Edition".

"You see, this guide book has all the details on places you'd be likely to need... but they seem to have forgotten to put a map in. Now, I know that I'm at the Water Gate, and I know that the Shades are a stone's throw from the Unseen University **(5)**, but I have no idea where _that_ is."

You could see (providing your name wasn't Fourweed and you weren't busy readying a pen and paper procured from goodness knows where) that the cogs in the scruff's brain were alternating between "tell him the truth, we'll be rich soon enough anyway" and "give 'im directions to the nearest Johnson and hope it's up to form". Eventually, with another nervous glance upwards and noting the growling box had finally yielded a couple of inches, he settled on the cruel option. Giving directions to the Shades.

"Well, we're on Washer Way. Now to get ta the Shades keep following the river down past the bridge and the Unreal Estate, you'll reach the Water Bridge and Sator Square. Now, you're not too far from the University here, so don't stick around unless you want a talking to. Head away from the river ta the Plaza of Broken Moons, hang a right down The Maul ta reach the Turnwise Broadway. Now from there...

The box moved. In a flash it was gone, streaking into the first window. Cue the muffled shouting, quickly joined by screaming from the next window over. Not that Fourweed noticed, lost in his direction taking.

"When ya reach the end of Cable street, cross Treacle Mine Road, and you're there! ...Can I go now? I think I hear me dear departed ma calling."

Fourweed didn't even look up. "Yes, that should be enough... reach the end of Cable street, cross Tre- was that Treacle Mine, or Treacle Nine?"

He raised his head to find the scruff had vanished. "Funny. I could have sworn he was right next to me... _dear __**departed**__ ma_? I know things work differently over here, but that's ridiculous!"

I WOULDN'T SAY THAT. commented a hooded figure stalking past, sending a nearby cat into hysterics. But not Fourweed, because Fourweed didn't notice him. There was a good reason for this. Unless you happen to be a cat, a practitioner of magic (and let's not get into those silly debates over whether the witches even _use_ magic), in a heightened state of awareness, or just plain dead, Death will forever remain unnoticed by you. That isn't to say that you won't see him, just that your subconscious brain will think "Oh, a tall, walking skeleton with a scythe. That can't possibly exist, so I don't think I'll mention it to (insert name here)." Never mind the Noble Dragon that terrorised the city, the Gargoyles, the _intelligent_ pigeons (how is that possible again?) and all the other impossibilities that keep walking past.

"Oh, never mind. I'll figure it out later... where's my iconograph? And my laundry? And my _directions_? I'm sure I was just holding them!"

Had Fourweed been paying attention, he'd have noticed a couple of shadows snigger. It was _so easy_ to relieve a newcomer of their worldly pos- BOP!

...And it was _so easy_ for unlicensed thieves to be taught the error of their ways. Not that Fourweed would realise this, because the _actual_ Thieves Guild members who had just shown up saw no reason why they should return the pilfered goods. And they likewise saw no reason why they should bother pinching the "guidebook" that the first lot had correctly labelled as "more trouble than it's worth". Gathering their freshly acquired spoils together, they slipped off unnoticed by anyone... unless you counted Death, who had just reappeared from a nearby door. He paused, and watched the tourist from a distance.

"Well, there's the guidebook anyway. Now, where's the Baggage? _Baggage!_"

A noise from above _finally_ got him to look up. The Baggage lazily drifted from a window, making a sound that had more than a passing resemblance to a burp.

"Ah, there you are! What were you doing in there?"

"URP!"

"What? Don't tell me you were hungry! You're a box, you don't need to eat!"

TELL THAT TO THE PAIR OF SKELETONS IN THERE, muttered Death, as only an anthropomorphic personification can. With a voice that is more felt than heard, and is frequently referred to by those "in the know" as similar to the grinding of age old tombstones, the achievement only becomes that much greater. Not that Fourweed's brain was letting any of _that_ past its personal _can't exist, can't exist, can't exist_ barriers.

"Mind taking the book back?" the tourist enquired of his box. It responded with the fairly definitive answer of dropping another few Rhinu onto his head, and flapping off, only stopping to gobble _another_ dozy pigeon before turning a corner and out of sight.

Fourweed stared after it. "Typical. _After I stopped the shop owner from burning you too_!"

And with that, he bent to pick up the Rhinu (actually getting them before the lurking thieves this time) hoisted the book, and stalked off muttering. Death watched him go.

ANOTHER BIT OF SAPIENT PEARWOOD. LOOSE IN A CITY. I EXPECT MY WORKLOAD WILL BE INCREASING SHORTLY. As he pondered this, the Death of Pigeons **(6)** swooped past, following the trail of the Baggage in a suicidal attempt to reclaim its captured pigeon souls.

I WONDER, WHO ATTENDS TO US ANTHROPOMORTHIC'S?

* * *

**Publishers Notes**

In hindsight, Fourweed didn't have _too_ many similarities to Twoflower. The name, sure, but personality wise he was quite different. From the accounts that we have so far managed to retrieve, it seems that he was mostly going through the motions of how he _thought_ tourists were supposed to act (an opinion derived from Twoflower's writings). This is also quite possibly the reason he has "the Baggage", another attempt to be as similar to Twoflower as possible.

Underneath that, he appears to be a rather cynical young man, but one who is nonetheless out to see the world. It will be interesting to see how this different approach fares as his adventures unfold.

* * *

**Footnotes**

**(1)** Yes, well, having a new emperor may have had something to do with that. The Silver Horde, and especially the infamous Cohen, were Barbarians, Vagabonds, _Wanderers_, and confinement didn't sit too well with them. The change in policy was actually fairly well received, at least, by those who actually _believed_ the news. The Heavenly Guard on the other hand, were a little annoyed at the cessation of normal duties. Their retaliation was (Shock, Horror!) threatening a strike.

**(2)** Common plants to be sure (particularly the Knotweed, as anyone who's seen a piece of it will tell you). But _not_ on the Discworld. A lack of magical resistance maybe, or perhaps the versions produced by the Shades have other tricks up their… uh, I'll leave that sentence unfinished.

**(3)** What the guidebook _fails_ to mention (yes, there is missing information… but honestly, how much can you fit in one book again?), is that what the watchman will be helping to do is… pick up the pieces. And call for an undertaker if you're lucky.

**(4)** This can be explained away as Fourwind believing a little too much of "What I did on my Holiday". It _certainly_ didn't come from his guidebook. No, not a chance. And anyone who tells you otherwise is an idiot.

**(5)** If that stone was magically powered. Hence the _Shades_ are within a stone's throw of the _University_, but not the other way round.

**(6)** There was always something you missed. Not all that long ago, certain… interferers (if you quite rightfully ignored their claims that they were only attempting to streamline things. With a combine harvester) had put Death into an early retirement. Amidst the chaos that followed, a host of new Deaths arose in an attempt to plug the gap, one for every species bar the new one for humans, who was noticeably tardy… and an omnicidal maniac. In other words, hardly someone you want in charge of your eternal soul.

Naturally, the Death we know (love is optional) had to reassert himself, so he (despite being an anthropomorphic personification of a vague _genderless_ force of nature, there is a definite sense that "he" is the correct word) sent the new Death packing and reabsorbed all of the animal Deaths back into himself. All, that is, but the Death of Rats – who he felt was possible companion material, the Death of Fleas – who was, frankly, attached to one of the more tiresome parts of the job, and welcome to it, and the Death of Pigeons – who he just plain missed. Despite successive attempts to correct this oversight, the Death of Pigeons remains loose… this could be something to do with almost exclusively chasing _Ankh Morpork_ pigeons, and learning not a few devious tricks in the process.


	2. 2: The Guide Knows All! Only AM 25!

**Here, There, and Everywhere… (Subject to Transport)**

* * *

**Publisher's Notes**

When we left Fourweed, the Discworld's _newest_ tourist, he'd just entered Ankh Morpork by means of the Water Gate, unknowingly caused a few local thieves to... expire, and had a one sided run in with Death **(1)**. At present we only have snapshots of his time afterwards, with little indication of just how they fit together We've done our best at assembling them in what we _hope_ is the correct order, but nonetheless discrepancies may remain. Our researchers, trawling through the so called L-Space, have yet to report back with the master draft, and so we have been forced to present the available records in a sequence of disconnected events. We will, as soon as possible, be releasing a new edition with any missing information restored, and everything in its correct place (estimated price AM$ 50).

* * *

**Article 2: The Guide Knows All... (Only AM$ 25!)**

Entry 1: Unreal Estate

_The Ms. Barker's book of Faux Facts – Travel Edition, has this to say on the subject of Bergholt Stuttley Johnson_.

Bergholt Stuttley Johnson, is one of Ankh Morpork's most renowned architects. Few are the buildings that have not benefitted from his hand, either from their actual construction, or from the items to be found within.

Take for example, the Mail Sorting Engine, a unique device that is able to sort mail at rates that work out as _faster than instant_. That's right, it is more than capable of enabling your love letter to reach its intended recipient before you even write it, thus saving you the effort of finding the pen and paper. We can quite truthfully say that the post office staff are in awe of the machine.

Or perhaps the accommodation of Empirical Crescent, a lovely row of houses that make it _much_ easier to know your neighbours. Due to Johnson's sheer ingeniousness in designing the place, the front door of number 5 may, for example lead into the broom closet of number 2, while the number 2 dumb waiter ferries food in a circle from the kitchen to the sitting room of number 4, the main bedroom of number 7, the toilet of number 1, and back to the kitchen of number 2. In such a street, sharing is the name of the game, and the inhabitants are much more amicable than elsewhere **(2)**.

And then we have the Unseen University and its improved manicure device. Johnson's genius with this creation was to make it multipurpose – in this case, it can also be used as a _very_ effective potato peeler... _if_ the kitchen staff can get it away from the women who would be, shall we say, _disappointed_ to see it go **(3)**.

Johnson has, unfortunately, picked up a few nicknames over the years, one of the most common of which would be "Bloody Stupid Johnson". It is almost certain that these names were created by jealous rivals, and that the names have stuck because they are simply easier to remember. Considering all of his creations work _flawlessly _**(4)**, there is simply no other justification available.

Rather worryingly, the man himself hasn't been seen in recent years.

* * *

The Unreal Estate, is one location in Ankh Morpork that _doesn't_ have Bloody Stupid Johnson to blame for its unique brand of quirkiness. In fact, it happens to be found just outside the UnseenUniversity, and _that_ should give you a pretty big clue as to _who_ is responsible. The idiot wizards have used it as a magical dumping ground, and you never quite know what will happen next. Perhaps because it's never what you would logically expect.

"Morning" said a tree, walking past. Fourweed stared, his subconscious mind hitting itself for not blanking the sight like it had the skeleton. The tree found its way onto the nearest patch of rather odd, orange grass, settled down with roots splayed out, and started snoring. And try as he might, Fourweed had no idea _how_. Where was the mouth?

Someone approached, a big fellow **(5) **wearing what looked like long scarlet robes. There was also a pointy hat, but as it wasn't displaying the word "wizzard" by means of sequins – or anything at all – Fourweed failed to make the connection.

"Excuse me, what's with the tree?"

The man stopped. Almost immediately Fourweed noticed something – the rain, admittedly lighter now but still there – was somehow completely missing him. But considering the walking tree, the multicoloured grass and the misty illusions wandering around, he didn't think much of it.

"The tree? Oh, another casualty of the _shocking_ management policies around here. You see, if it wasn't for those disrespectful ragamuffins in the University (cough cough), this would be just another clean and beautiful park. But with everything that they inconveniently buried under here, well, let's just say things went downhill. By the way, I wouldn't stand in one place too long. Just a friendly bit of advice."

Fourweed looked down, and found his feet beginning to sink into the pavement. He hurriedly moved to the somehow more solid grass, with no lasting consequences beyond his sandals changing to a lovely shade of green.

Just picked up by the outer edges of Fourweed's hearing, a voice drifted in from an unknown source.

"_Ha! Serves the bugger right for listening to him!_"

"_Archchancellor, please! We're supposed to be lying low!_"

"_I almost wonder why we listened to you, Stibbons. Why are we the ones who should be hiding? It's disgraceful!_"

Fourweed, curious though he was at that little exchange, was forced to stop listening as the other man stuck out his hand.

"The name's Henry by the way. Archchancellor of Brazeneck College, finest institution of magical studies you can find!"

A lone "_Hah_!" drifted in. Henry didn't seem to notice, as Fourweed reluctantly extended his own for a shake.

"Of course, we're based in Pseudopolis, which explains why the masses here haven't heard of us."

"_No, it's because you're rubbish_."

"_Archchancellor_!"

"So, what are you doing in Ankh Morpork?" Fourweed asked. And then, because he really couldn't stop himself, continued with: "Eyeing up the competition?"

"_Yes!_" drifted in. Henry's answer was more... circumspect, to put it nicely.

"The very thought! We have a very friendly relationship, the UU and us! ("_What?_") No, I'm here to learn about ways to improve our college..."

"_Spying, spying, spying, spying..._"

"_Archchancellor! If you keep this up you might as well have physically butted in yourself!_"

"_Stibbons has a point, Archchancellor. Don't want to frighten him off before learning what he's up to do we?_"

"_Fine, Chair. But one more comment like that from him and I'm dropping this whole stealth thing_."

"_Stealth, he says_..."

To put it bluntly, Fourweed was starting to get the impression that Henry was indeed aware of the voices "whispering" away. Which only raised the question of why he hadn't reacted. Maybe, he didn't care. Maybe he had a single track mind, and would only turn to deal with... whoever the watchers were... when he'd finished showing off to Fourweed. Or, maybe he _wanted_ a confrontation.

"You see old boy, the Unreal Estate has (he gestured over at a row of buildings trying unsuccessfully to hide behind a border of trees – unsuccessfully, because the trees kept moving, and bubbles of coalesced rainwater floating through the air kept bursting in an eye drawing manner on their walls) the Thaumatological Park, where they produce new magical devices. New models of iconographs, personal Disorganisers, that sort of thing. I was just going to buy myself a few models, sell them in Pseudopolis, and see if we could benefit from a lasting trade agreement."

"_Meaning buy them, figure out how they work, and start selling cheap knockoffs. __**Very **__clever... I don't think!_"

"_Stibbons, that was my line!_"

"Of course, I don't expect to find much of interest. They may be well known, but they rely too much on their association with the Unseen University. Most of their products are _very_ low quality, much like the University itself-"

"_THAT DOES IT!_"

Fourweed looked round, just in time to see a funny looking bush about twenty metres away shimmer and metamorphose into… something much worse. The first thing that drew the attention, was the big bushy beard. The second thing, that would be the furious eyes just above. And the third, would be the fact that said beard and eyes were moving _very quickly_ in his direction. Noticing the body attached to the face was not high on the list, and neither would be the presence of another four wizards cowering in his wake **(6)**. Well, three of them were. The young one with the glasses just had a palm glued to his face.

"_DEAN!_"

"Ah, Ridcully. I was wondering when you would be so gracious to show yourself. And might I remind you that I'm an Archchancellor now, not your _dean_."

Fourweed had, by now, cottoned onto to the obvious, that he was caught slap bang in the middle of what threatened to be a localised rerun of the mage wars. The other wizards, lurking in the background, gave him sympathetic looks, but weren't lifting a finger to help. Three looked frightened at _their _Archchancellor's temper (Take three Thunderstorms, mix with one Typhoon, throw in a solar storm while you're at it, and shake... Now multiply by five.), and the other just looked worried. Come to think of it, that frown had the appearance of something, if not perpetual, then at least a chronic visitor.

"YOU CAN'T GIVE IT A BREAK, CAN YOU? IS YOUR SO CALLED COLLEGE FACULTY _THAT_ THICK, THAT YOU HAVE TO RESORT TO SLANDER AND THEFT?"

"Well, we don't have quite the budget yo-"

"AND STOP BEING SO DAMN SMUG ABOUT IT, AS IF THAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO SWAN IN AND COMMIT COMMERCIAL BACKSTABBING ESPIONAGE!"

By now, Fourweed was busy thumbing through his guide again, hoping that somewhere inside the tome of "wisdom" **(7) **there would be a section helpfully titled "What to do when caught with a war/pair of wizards". There was, word for word. That was about the extent of the good news, with the _bad_ news being that it was hidden at the back, and consisted of a mere two sentences.

_Endeavour to avoid this situation. Or, if you somehow failed to follow that very good advice, pray_.

As it turned out, just as _Henry_'s voice began to go into overdrive, something appeared with the sole intent of disturbing them.

"Ah! Baggage!" Fourweed called up, as the small bit of airborne sapient pearwood flapped into position overhead. "Drop a personal magic suppressor would you?"

It did. Right on his head, with the unfortunate side effect (beyond the expected headache) of shattering the talisman **(8)**. And then the Baggage thoughtfully dropped a hardhat as well… upside down, and knocking Fourweed out. Clearly, the thing had a sense of humour that was more than a little sadistic.

Other things about it were worrying the wizards, who had (thankfully) shut up, and gone a funny shade of ashen. They stared at the Baggage like it was the spawn of certain things best left unnamed.

"That's…" began Henry, a sentence that he didn't feel compelled to complete.

"Another one…" Ridcully continued, his eyes containing an image of many little feet.

"It's got…" Henry started…

"…a number of sides equal to…"

"Four and four!" they finished together. They looked at each other, turned, and legged it. In opposite directions, as fast as they could. With the exception of the young one, who looked interested, the rest of the wizards had already vanished. And then he too was gone, as an arm appeared from goodness knew where, and dragged him off in a blur. It may have had a body attached, but at that speed, who could tell?

Fourweed, alone and unconscious but for the Baggage, was left where he lay. A few (licensed) thieves prowling the Estate in a foolhardy attempt to find someone not already carrying a chitty, wandered over for a look, and then thought better of it when the Baggage lowered a ragged looking trouser length… with a foot attached. Wisely, they decided that other locations were better prowled… say, the exterior of Pseudopolis Yard. Well, Watchmen nowadays…

The Baggage, stayed there, wings aflapping. Eventually it got bored, and ate a stray bit of magic floating past, along with a pigeon that just _happened_ to be occupying the same airspace. Curiously, the Death of Pigeons failed to make an appearance…

* * *

Entry 2: Lower Broadway and Brass Bridge

Fourweed, now with _two_ bumps on the forehead, had finally found his way onto the normally bustling Lower Broadway. The Baggage had, not surprisingly, gone missing again, but every so often he'd catch a glimpse of something overhead, hear a hurried "coo" cut off mid-flow, feel grey feathers falling down around his ears. It had happened so many times, he'd given up looking… up.

Lower Broadway, was surprisingly empty, which was annoying because he'd yet to find someone else to ask for directions. At least, he'd yet to find someone else to ask for directions, who wasn't already preoccupied. Theatres and museums lined the street, while somewhere behind the tourist, the central watch house at Pseudopolis Yard demanded attention. Attention it was not getting, because Fourweed had already seen it, and the locals saw it every day.

Finally, opposite the Dysk theatre (currently showing: Hwel's Happenings of a Midsummer's Night **(9)**), he found a small shop that was currently empty of customers, empty of thieves (_not_ the same thing), and still somehow contained a bored looking shopkeeper (who wasn't a thief _either_. Maybe.). Apparently, he was selling, or trying to sell, banged grains. However, a certain lack of Holy Wood films meant that there wasn't much of a demand for such a treat, and in _most_ people's opinion this was a fair trade off for a distinctive lack of giant _things_ trying to eat the city. Bennie, of Bennie's Banged Grains fame, was perhaps the only exception, but that sort of served him right for clinging so desperately to the Holy Wood siren dream.

"Are you Bennie?" asked Fourweed, walking in. The other jerked.

"Whas that? Who's asking? If it's about them funny noises in the Alchemist's cauldron, how was I to know where they were goin to put em? You unnercover Watch can't prove anything. Besides, I wuz off that day."

Fourweed gave him the look, the look that said… I'm not the Watch, so shut up and help me. Luckily, unlike that scruff who he'd met at the Water Gate, the shopkeeper _could_ read faces. He calmed down. Curiously, his voice also changed _completely_, going from panicky "I know my mouth's going to drop me in hot water, but I'm going to keep going anyway" to a much more intelligent sounding "Nothing to see here. No, honestly, nothing."

"Uh… sorry about that outburst guv. I'll tell the other personality that shares my body to keep quiet from now on. So, how many bags of banged grains did you want? Special deal, buy one get one free!"

Idly watching the Baggage flap down to land on a roof on the other side of the street, seemingly looking his way hungrily (how _did_ it always know when food was on the agenda?), Fourweed shrugged, rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a slightly grimy rhinu. The shopkeeper's eyes went wide, but he kept quiet as he put the goods together. All in all, surprisingly well, except…

"I thought you said buy one, get one free?"

Bennie looked at him, an unreadable expression back on his face.

"I did. One bag, one free banged grain. That's what you got there."

Fourweed put his nose to the "food", and sniffed. All of a sudden, he wasn't really keen to dispute the matter. Anyway, it was time to offer "the question"… except then the moment was _completely_ stolen by the man running up the street. Close on his heels, _nipping_ at his heels, a funny looking yellow hound. The tourist and the shopkeeper watched as they flashed out of sight, and round a corner. All that was left then, was to watch the big human man running in their wake, until he too was gone. Remembering that Twoflower had often written about things that were _traditional_ in Ankh Morpork, Fourweed guessed that he'd just seen a weird three participant one of them. _Funny sort of thing_, he thought. _Why do they bother_?

…

"Anyway", he said, turning back to face the shopkeeper, "I was about to ask something. Would you happen to know where the Shades are?"

Over the road, on the neighbouring rooftop, the Baggage had given up waiting for the banged grains. It flitted sideways, settling next to a gargoyle who had just caught his favourite lunch - a pigeon. Fourweed had a feeling he knew how _that_ was going to turn out.

"The Shades?" repeated Bennie, a number of expressions flying across his face. "You want to go to the _Shades_?"

"Yes? Is there a restriction?"

"No… Did you just want directions, or should I call my friend across the street to assign you a suicidee escortee? I'll only charge you another one of those coins!"

Fourweed stared at him, uttering the words: "You must be mad! On my budget? Anyway, if you want it, you'd have to get it off my Baggage". He indicated the rooftop, where the Baggage in question was all but butting heads against the gargoyle – it was "_all_ but butting heads" because _it_ at least, didn't have one.

Bennie, suddenly went off the idea. The problem (if it _was_ a problem) was that word of Rincewind's Luggage had gotten around. And even he could see that asking the Baggage for money was an idea as bad as one could get. As if to confirm his suspicions, the thing somehow vanished as he was looking at it, leaving one annoyed gargoyle _and no pigeon_.

"Sorry, just a thought… Okay, go across Brass Bridge, along Upper Broadway and…"

…

Sometime later, Fourweed left the shop and headed in the direction of the bridge. As he walked along, the Baggage swooped overhead. Without thinking, the tourist chucked the bag of banged grains upwards, where it disappeared without a trace. With a burp and another shower of feathers, the Baggage disappeared to parts unknown.

As he approached the bridge, the amount of foot traffic picked up. So did the number of carts, which also meant an increase in… free fertiliser. And fume pollution – it seemed that the diet of constant cabbages was good for one thing at least, judging by the amount of… honking the animals were doing. With so much traffic, it was hardly a surprise when Fourweed bumped into something, or rather something (two trolls) bumped into him. They deigned not to comment, and kept going at their sluggish pace, taking their large packing crate with them.

The bridge was packed, but Fourweed managed not to notice; with the guidebook out again, this was hardly surprising. Tourist autopilot zigzagged him across the bridge, as he eyed each wooden hippo statue passing on the downstream side, and between pondered the question of the guidebook's name once more. _Ms. Barker's book of Faux Facts_… what did "faux" mean again? It was something he kept meaning to find out, but so far the only reference had been in the "Fallacious Fable's Dictionary", where it displayed the word next to the statement "Something that is up for debate". Strangely, the word Fallacious was excluded completely. But Fourweed wasn't too worried, only curious. After all, the word sounded important, and aristocrats (such as the author) would _never_ lie, would they? That would be _unthinkable_!

Almost before he knew it, Fourweed had crossed the bridge. He paused, looking round. A feeling was starting to sink in that something was off... and through the medium of two approaching watchmen, something was going to be found... missing.

They were a funny pair, thought Fourweed, as they entered his field of vision and ambled slowly in his direction. So funny, that he couldn't help but watch. One best described as round, although not quite as round as the wizards had been (excluding the young one and the raging Archchancellor). The other... well, the short man was possibly human, but probably not.

"So tell me why we're out here again sarge."

"Well Nobby, we're guarding the Brass Bridge from theft, just as we always do."

"No, not that Sarge. Why are we out here _now_? Aren't we the _Night_ Watch? As in, we come out in the dark?"

The "Sarge" put an eye to the sky, which (luckily for him) had finally stopped drizzling, even if the clouds hadn't felt the need to go someplace else yet.

"Looks pretty dark to me!"

"Sarge!"

"Alright Nobby, apparently the Day Watch are feeling a little overworked with the Foot-the-Ball match today. So they've called us in to plug the leaks on the old peacekeeping front!"

"So... shouldn't we be down where the crowds are?"

"No point Nobby. No peacekeeping to be done where there isn't peace to keep, if you catch my drift."

Fourweed gathered that the way that the _possibly_ human Nobby's face settled so immediately into acceptance, that this was a common discussion for the pair of them. He was about to move on, when the two watchman reached level with a certain pedestal...

"Uh, Sarge, how many statues does Brass Bridge have again?"

"Eight. Unless the Patrician commissioned another one when I wasn't looking."

Nobby eyed the pedestal suspiciously. "Not quite Sarge..."

The Sergeant stopped and looked back. And then he slowly turned around on the spot, counting statues. And while he was doing so, Fourweed had yet another rummage through his guidebook...

* * *

_The Ms. Barker's book of Faux Facts – Travel Edition, has this to say on the subject of Ankh Morpork's Brass Bridge:_

Linking the Lower Broadway and its entertainment sector with the Upper Broadway and the Patrician's Palace, the Brass Bridge is a must see on any tour of the city. And so, you probably _will_ see it. Just whatever you do, ignore the "salesmen" around. Their main goal is to sell the bridge to tourists, but as they are not endorsed by the Guild of Merchants, or any other for that matter, don't expect the bargain to be honoured.

The bridge is the largest such spanning the Ankh, and the most travelled. Found across the bridge are eight wooden statues of hippopotami, dressed with heraldic symbols – references to the theory that Ankh Morpork was founded by twin orphans who were subsequently raised… or trodden on, by hippos. The fact that the Hippo is Ankh Morpork's royal animal might have something to do with it as well. By the way, the other theory regarding the city's origin simply isn't worth mentioning. Let's just say it involves a whole lot of dung, shall we?

There is an interesting legend regarding these specific hippo statues. Other cities have stories too, of statues that come to life when the city is in danger, and march out to protect it. We honestly can't believe such tales, but we can safely say that the Ankh Morpork version _is_ likely. The Hippos, in the event of imminent invasion, are supposed to come to life, and… run away. Truly the right decision, a sterling demonstration to the citizens of the city, a conscious effort to show them the way! **(10)**

Despite its age, Brass Bridge can be said to be surviving well, particularly now that the little problem with Rust has been cleared up... **(11)**

* * *

The Watchmen had come to the same conclusion as Fourweed. At least now he knew what had been bugging him earlier... but the Watch were stumped... not a difficult thing when said Watch members are Nobby Nobbs and Fred Colon. All the street knowledge in the Discworld can't stop the simple mind from becoming a little clogged up at the unexpected.

"So Sarge... if all of the hippos run away when the city is in danger, what does it mean if just one runs away?"

"Uh... that the city's one eighth in danger?"

The two looked at each other, and at the crowd starting to pull itself in from the various narrow streets in the bridge's vicinity. Its natural state, the audience in motion that was Ankh Morpork's crowd always responded with amazing speed to any promised distraction. It was something the Watchman were used to, but it was also something that was _just plain annoying_!

The Sergeant straightened. "Well, in such times as these there's really only one thing to do Nobby."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Report back to Commander Vimes with all haste!" the Sergeant responded, already moving quite rapidly for someone of his... frame. With one last glance around, the _possibly_ human followed.

Fourweed suddenly became aware of a fluttering sound right by his ear. He looked round to espy the Baggage hovering next to his head. Through means quite unknown to all but itself, it somehow gave the impression of being _hungry_.

"I don't suppose you know anything about this?" he asked, gesturing to the empty plinth. The Baggage did nothing but flap away in place, as if pondering the question. And then...

"URP!"

Fourweed didn't quite know how to respond to that. Considering the size of the thing, a little larger than a shoebox, how _could_ it swallow something as large as a statue? But then, how could it drop things larger than itself anyway? That bag of laundry (wherever it had gone) was wider than the Baggage, and so had the iconograph been for that matter.

Perhaps it was better not to ask. Perhaps it would be better to find something for the thing to eat _before_ it decided to try human for a change...

* * *

Entry 3: The Shades

_The Ms. Barker's book of Faux Facts – Travel Edition, has this to say on the subject of "The Shades":_

The "Shades" is the rather unusual designation given to the oldest part of Ankh Morpork. We can only assume that the name comes about from the fact that the picturesque streets are so narrow that the sunlight has trouble getting in at times. This could be fixed with a few lanterns, but the city authorities are strangely reluctant to consider this course of action.

This is especially concerning when you consider that most of the work done in this part of the city, happens to be carried out at night. A few lanterns would make things much easier, but for now such activities are entirely performed in near pitch black conditions. Compounding things, is the noticeable lack of authoritarian presence. The Watch rarely venture in, and the same can be said of the municipal workers responsible for removing weeds and filling in potholes. As a result, while the Shades are very pretty (provided you have passable night vision), the streets have a _slightly_ higher than preferred level of weeds.

Still, the Shades are popular. We have it on very good authority that some visitors just can't stay away...

(The article goes on for some length, but somehow fails to mention the _real_ reason why most activities are nocturnal, and thus explain the staffing issues)

* * *

As it happened, one of those regular visitors was stalking through the streets right at that very moment.

DON'T MIND ME, JUST PASSING THROUGH.

_Riiight_. The very nature of the Shades means that Death visits it more than most places. In this case though, it wasn't the unlicensed thieves responsible for his visit... or maybe they were. It all depended on perspective.

The black cloaked skeleton entered a square, and came to a halt by a certain object lying below a third story open window. The corpse was holding a noose, and was... missing things. This seemed to be the latest trend.

SO, WHAT LESSONS DID YOU LEARN FROM THIS LIFE? Death asked of the spirit, as it finally gathered the courage to stand up. It had rather distant eyes, not really looking at anything in particular.

"Uhhh, never mess with a flying box again? ..._I'm not going to see any more am I_?"

I HIGHLY DOUBT IT.

The spirit calmed down, quite unbothered that it was starting to fade away. Apparently being dead wasn't the biggest fear any more. Quite understandable really.

"Good... if that thing came at me again, I think I'd die of shock!"

Yes, very understandable. Death considered carefully what to say next.

...OUT OF CURIOSITY, WHAT WOULD YOU CONCLUDE IF YOU FOUND YOURSELF TALKING TO A SEVEN FOOT TALL SKELETON?

"Well, I'd suppose that, assuming the wizards hadn't done something again, I'd be... dead."

The spirit's eyes finally focussed.

"Oh..."

PRECISELY.

The spirit seemed to consider this revelation. It brightened up.

"Oh well, I guess I won't be seeing that thing again..."

It faded away. Death watched it go, before realising something.

SAPIENT PEARWOOD. IF ITS MASTER FOUND HIS WAY TO MY DOOR, WOULD IT BE COMPELLED TO FOLLOW?

A fairly final sounding scream echoed round, its origin an alley not all that far away. Death, despite being a supposedly tireless being, sighed.

DUTY CALLS...

The skeleton wandered off... just as a figure staggered from the nearest dark alley... and (BOP!) hit his head on a conveniently sticking out window ledge. Clutching his poor head (especially poor considering the abuse the Baggage had been inflicting on it all day), Fourweed reached the side of the square, pirouetted and fell backwards onto the handy stone container holding... soil he guessed.

He'd been wandering around in the Shades for a good couple of hours now, and had found plenty of... weeds, but not a lot of those varieties he was especially after. And then the Baggage had been somewhat absent, so when he _did_ find a good outcrop of Dandelion, he'd been forced to leave it behind. He _had_ managed to coax the errant flying box in for long enough to feed it some Knotweed stems though.

Since then, he'd been trying to find his way back to the Ankh, a somewhat difficult task, which was strange when you considered its sedentary nature. Maybe someone kept moving it... well, considering what city he was in... And he'd got surprise after surprise, mostly in the form of jumps and starts at the screams emanating from windows and around corners, always in close proximity, but never near enough to identify the cause. Another reason to find his way out of the "quaint" Shades... had they _really_ changed that much since Twoflower's visit?

The Baggage flapped past again, in hot pursuit of a crazed pigeon. Which then threw its pursuer off with a nifty 180 degree vertical turn, letting the Baggage disappear down an alley in pursuit of thin air. The pigeon promptly made itself scarce.

"Well, that's nine hundred and ninety nine surprises..." the tourist muttered to himself. "I guess I'm nearly safe... _what am I sitting on_?"

"Drinking water, fresh from the Ankh!" answered a passing crone, before cackling her way into the nearby seamstresses shop. A moment later, a wizened hand flipped the sign to "open".

Fourweed sighed. Now he knew why the "soil" was slowly yielding beneath him. Still, he shouldn't have to move for another minute or so.

"One thousand... now I'm definitely sa-"

BOP!

Much to the tourist's annoyance, a cudgel would have to disagree. Not the hand wielding it, but the cudgel itself... because as it happened, it had been blessed (or cursed, depending on who you were asking) by the same mysterious wizard who'd been involved with Kring **(12)**. As Fourweed slumped over unconscious (just), the cudgel and its owner drew themselves from the shadows.

"_Well, he didn't put up much of a fight. Should I hit him again, wake him up_?"

"No! We need to rob him, not pummel him!"

"_**You**__ need to rob him. I'm more than happy to give him a few bruises myself_."

"So, what would you do if I passed out from lack of food? Find a new owner?"

"_In so many words, yes. I hit, therefore I am._ (BOP!)"

"OUCH!"

Attached to the hand holding the cudgel, was an arm. Follow that to the neck, go upwards, and you'd find a head. Said head was now preparing to show a bruise.

"What was that for?"

"_Soorrry._" The cudgel didn't sound sorry in the slightest. "_I do have a daily beatings quota to reach_ _you know_!"

A scuffle up above saw a certain pigeon return to the square in a frenzy. Behind it came one _very_ irritated Baggage, determined that the bird wouldn't get away _this_ time.

"_Heyup, another target. That'd be a good thing to hit_!"

The cudgel made a few practice swings through the air, dragging the attached hand with it.

"_Here boxie, boxie_!"

The "boxie" obliged, swooping down. This was nothing to do with the cudgel whatsoever – the Baggage was busy chasing the Pigeon, which dive-bombed the cudgel in the hope of transferring the vengeful pursuer's attention.

No such luck. The pigeon suddenly vanished as a lid snapped down on it, accompanying the nastiest sounding "slurping" noise you ever heard. But it had succeeded in one thing...

BOP!

The Baggage turned and looked (?) menacingly at the _thing_ that had _dared_ attack it. The cudgel's owner attempted to back off, but the cudgel itself was having none of it. BOP! It struck again.

And in retaliation... or righteous punishment, the cudgel disappeared. So did its former wielder's hand... who thanked his lucky stars that his torturer had gone, and scarpered. So what if the hand had gone? It was a fair trade-off in his opinion! (Three corners later, he had a nasty surprise in the form of a certain voice remarking WEREN'T YOU WORRIED ABOUT THE BLOODLOSS?)

The Baggage settled down, and landed on the cobbles to digest its latest meal. A few moments later, Fourweed began to stir. His eyes focussed, just in time to see the Baggage hiccup.

...Something took the opportunity to escape the open lid. A small bit of octarine magic... In his current state, even Fourweed noticed it, just as he noticed what happened next.

The crone in the seamstress' shop looked out of the window, just in time to see the tourist and his Baggage shimmer and disappear. She shrugged, and turned back to... actually, let's not go there.

And across town, in the Unseen University...

"STIBBONS!"

...

* * *

**Publisher's Notes**

Narrativium is clearly at work here. The one thing that the wizards appear to fear more than the luggage, and it ends up right in the Unseen University? Come to think of it, it may have been governing Fourweed's misadventures since the very beginning, starting right with the "little odds and sods shop" that promptly went walkabout again, and the whole similarities business that got Fourweed started. Seems a little out of character for a natural cynic.

We'll endeavour to bring you the next instalment the _moment_ our researchers return with certain missing but relevant information on his time in Ankh Morpork.

* * *

**Footnotes**

**(1**) To be honest, we find this part of the account difficult to believe, and suspect that the unidentified author may have been on some form of stimulants when penning it. Not that we don't believe Death to exist, but considering the sheer amount of work he has to do, wouldn't he send some underling to deal with a number of rather trivial thieves? Say perhaps, Scrofula?

Despite our misgivings, we have left this and later sections unedited, for the sake of authenticity. Or the Benefit of the Doubt, whichever explanation you prefer.

**(2)** They have to be. Seeing as you never know which neighbour is going to walk through your dining room door next, you don't want to accidentally give offence in case he sets an assassin on you. There's also no point thinking that the assassin will simply miss the house and get someone else by mistake, because an assassin aimed at said "someone else" might accidentally inhume _you_. The best thing to do is avoid giving offence, or some _very_ embarrassing situations can come about.

Typically, residents are only temporary, and they happen to be _much_ improved in temperament by the time they leave.

**(3)** ...They would be if it was a _normal_ manicure device. But, as it happens to be another "Johnson", potato peeling is pretty much the _only_ thing it is _ever_ going to be used for. And the guide completely fails to mention that this use was an _accident_.

**(4)** Well, this bit at least is true. They just work flawlessly at something they weren't intended for. The Post Office Sorting Engine for example, is a very effective killing device… not to mention that it sends physicists (such as the Discworld has) into fits.

**(5)** By big, try _fat_. Or even better _obese_. It's a trait common to wizards... unless you count the new crowd, but then they're not really wizards, are they? More... theoretical thaumatologists.

**(6)** As any academic who has studied, or studied _at_ the Unseen University will know, its senior faculty currently consists of Archchancellor Mustrum Ridcully, the Chair of Indefinite Studies, the Senior Wrangler, the Lecturer in Recent Runes, newcomer "let's give all the actual jobs to _him_" Ponder Stibbons, and the (somewhat supplanted by Ponder) Bursar. At this point, considering no crazy talk can be identified in the script, it can be assumed that the Bursar is the missing member of staff, no doubt having overdosed on the dried frog pills again. The Librarian (name unknown), isn't really a member of the senior faculty, and couldn't be coaxed out of the library anyway, not without either great difficulty, great pain, or great numbers of bananas. Rincewind? Don't make me laugh!

Note that the position of Dean is currently vacant, its share of duties dropped squarely on Ponder's already suffering shoulders.

**(7)** Now someone's slandering _our_ bestselling guide! Ignore it. The rest of the writing appears true enough, but this is clearly someone's completely incorrect opinion.

**(8)** To be perfectly honest, it wouldn't have made any difference to its effectiveness, because the wandering shop owner responsible for selling it to him _had lied_. And Fourweed had gone along with it because, well, dubious though he was, it never hurt to be sure.

**(9)** A morphing title, because he still hasn't settled on one that sounds _snappy_. But it's got better; the original one was "Things Which Happened On A Midsummer's Night".

**(10)** …Did I really write that? What was I- You didn't hear _nothing_!

**(11)** Lord Ronald Rust. There was a time where he became quite outspoken in a belief that the bridge should be demolished. No one is quite sure why; the only theory that even remotely makes sense (beyond him possibly seeing it as an eyesore), is that he wanted to avoid another vanishing trick by Unseen University students. The main problem disqualifying the theory, is that it would be a little too rational an explanation where Lord Rust is concerned.

**(12)** A talking sword, last seen in the vicinity of the Wyrmberg. Many legends surround its creation, but the most prolific seems to be as follows: basically, a sorcerer by the name of Merlen... Marlin... Merlion... whatever, was searching for a suitable weapon to gift a future king. He already knew the delivery system; a nice lady living in a lake had offered to pass it on when the time was right, but he had some trouble actually creating the weapon. Kring was an early attempt that clearly went wrong, because it had severe personality flaws and a habit of killing its wielder. Even discounting that, it was notably easy to be talked to death by it, so the sorcerer understandably abandoned the blasted thing.

The cudgel apparently, was an even earlier attempt, hence the fact it wasn't even given a name. Among the flaws found this time round, are a certain eagerness to pick on the weak (ie, everyone), and the lack of a killing edge. It's safe to say, that the sorcerer wasn't the best in his field.


	3. 3: Things to Make a Wizard Scared

**Here, There, and Everywhere… (Subject to Transport)**

**Article 3: Things to Make a Wizard Scared…**

_The Ms. Barkers Book of Faux Facts – Travel Edition, has this to say on the subject of the Unseen University_

We have absolutely nothing to say on the Unseen University.

...

To clarify, we can say nothing that can be validated. This is unfortunate, but the problem stems from a certain lack of returned questionnaires, correspondence from wizards, or our own researchers for that matter. That said, the University pond - just visible from a neighbouring rooftop - appears to be a good place for breeding frogs, judging by the large numbers seen there of late… but we don't think there is a connection **(1)**.

###

"STIBBONS!"

The somewhat... loud voice going off a metre or so from Fourweed's ear, almost made him wish for the bliss of unconsciousness again. _Almost_, but no more... perhaps because of the little thing going SQUEAK and waving a miniature scythe in his face. Not quite the sort of thing you feel safe going to sleep around. But that didn't stop him closing his eyes for a moment, hoping the apparition would decide there were better things to do than terrorise insignificant tourists...

A flapping sound, gave him a small amount of comfort. With the loyal guardian that was the Baggage around, he was safe enough.

"Oof!"

...And the flapping sound faded off into the distance, taking the sound of screaming with it. So much for the "loyal guardian". This sort of left Fourweed a mere two options. He could keep lying on the admittedly rather comfy rug, but this would mean running a few risks. Specifically, the risks of being eaten, thumped, stabbed, burnt, _blown up_, scythed, clawed, _stepped on_, stung by a horde of wasps, poisoned... or, if things went _really_ pear shaped, tortured with some _very_ bad _poetry_.

...

"Brain, why do you do this to me?" he muttered to himself, fed up with it coming up with new and inventive ways to make his life (or soon to be lack of) a misery. Which led him to option _two_; stop being a pessimist and _get up_. He opened his eyes...

...Well, the good news was, the little skeletal rat had gone **(2)**. But, as is always the case when that line is uttered, there was some bad news as well. The question was, would it be the raven staring hungrily at his left eye, or the tiger snarl aimed at the right?

...

_What..?_ So then, the new choice; keep eyes open and lose one to the bird, or shut them and lose... probably a fair bit more to the cat? Hmm, difficult one. As if to make it harder, the raven hopped a little closer.

"Got a favourite?" a voice asked. Completely against the expectations of logic, the bird's beak happened to move at _exactly_ the same moment. Fourweed put it down to a ventriloquist in the vicinity. Interesting trick anyway; train a bird to open/shut with certain timing, and there goes the need for a poorly made dummy. Lower Broadway, here we come!

"Come on, I haven't got all day!" the bird "spoke" again, making a jab in the direction of the nearest eye. Not too surprisingly, Fourweed blinked... one eye only. That tiger was still there... clearly poised and waiting its moment, because it hadn't uttered a sound yet... not a growl or anything. And then it became threat number one, because a boot came in and shooed the bird away.

"Quoth, go and bother someone else... or better yet, make yourself useful and see what happened to the cats in the cellar. We don't want another outbreak of megalomaniac mice, do we?"

"What could _I_ do?" the "bird's" voice asked. "And Old Grim Squeaker here can't do a thing 'till they drop dead anyway."

"You'll think of something... by the way, Glenda might be able to "find" another eyeball pie in the storeroom if, say, someone were to... clear the way?"

"You think I'm stupid? I know a bribe when I hear one. No way! Non! Not a chance! Cold day in hell be- CAW! Get off me you! No, not that way!"

The voice gradually retreated, spewing expletives by the baker's dozen... by the thirteen in other words. Not the best number to invoke when you're being "persuaded" to do a job. Fourweed, facing the other way and not privy to the sight of skeletal rats riding ravens anyway thanks to his inflexible subconscious, was left wondering why a ventriloquist would warrant that sort of treatment. And the last comment, before the voice was lost in the distance, only made him more confused.

"Why did I let you fit me with reins again?"

But a certain tiger was still occupying his attention. It still hadn't moved. And nor did it move when the hand came down not ten centimetres from its gaping jaw, grabbed Fourweed's own hand, and pulled him to his feet.

...The "tiger" was revealed to be a mere... animal rug. Whoops. It sat in the middle of a fairly opulent looking suite, otherwise dominated by a _very_ big eight poster bed. A tall, oversized and definitely pointy hat sat on a nearby stool, a hat that looked familiar... and as Fourweed turned his head to look at the one who'd just yanked him up, he knew why.

That was a familiar beard. Those were familiar deep set eyes, and the robes, they were familiar too. So, for that matter, was the young man skidding to a halt from the direction of the open door.

"Yes, Archchancellor?" the newcomer gasped, a hand going up to stop his glasses from slipping off.

"Ah, Stibbons. You didn't happen to see anything... out of place on your way here, by any chance? Say... the piece of rampaging sapient pearwood that happened to shove its way past me?"

The one called "Stibbons" looked at his Archchancellor with rising suspicion...

"No, Archchancellor. Just the rest of the senior faculty having a bit of evening exercise."

"Where? Towards the banquet hall?"

"...No, Archchancellor."

"The food stores perhaps?"

"No, Archchancellor"

The Archchancellor delayed his next question for some time, before _finally_ coming up with... more of the same.

"...How about one of the kitchens?"

"No, quite the opposite, Archchancellor."

"_Anywhere_ that could conceivably contain twenty dinner trolleys and half a dozen platters of dessert? Anywhere at all?"

"Not unless the kitchen staff were willing to carry them up eight thousand, eight hundred and eighty eight steps **(3)**, Archchancellor."

"So, wizards who are notable for their distaste of exertion went on a running trip _and_ felt the need to climb the Tower of Art as well? Didn't you see anything suspicious about that?"

Sudden, distant screaming wafted in through the open door, giving Ponder a quick change of expression to "worried".

"Well," he admitted, "I did think the expressions of fear a little out of place. And the fact they barricaded the tower entrance behind them. Sapient Pearwood you say? Rincewind's Luggage?"

"Not this time. Apparently, this _tourist_ (he nudged Fourweed with a rather knobbly elbow) decided to pop in for a visit, and bring the Luggage's little brother for a visit. Any moment now our esteemed colleagues are going to realise what those wings are for... still, I suppose the exercise will do them good."

More screaming broke out, closer this time, and it didn't _sound_ like old men of the wizardly persuasion. The Archchancellor looked up.

"Then again, we don't want to lose _too_ many students, do we? Stibbons, _tourist_, with me!"

###

A short time later, having coaxed the other wizards into leaving their "sanctuary" (not a difficult task when a hungry wooden thing is snapping its way down the stairs towards you), Archchancellor Ridcully had split his wizards into pairs, each one tasked with trying a different tactic against the rampant Baggage. There was a minor problem with this. Sapient Pearwood, is notably impervious to pretty much every kind of magic you could shake a stick at. Guess what the wizards were doing.

Ridcully looked up from his makeshift desk as the last pair of wizards surged into the packed great hall, a number of Bledlows hurriedly swinging the doors shut and jamming a table across it. From outside, a considerable amount of snarling, as the Baggage indulged in its favourite, previously unaired hobby – terrorising wizards. Soon though, it got bored, and flapped its way elsewhere.

Ridcully let out a sigh that could only be described as "explosive".

"So Gentlemen, I gather that plan F was a fail?"

The two newcomers... looked uneasily at each other. Fourweed just about recognised them... Doctor Hix, of the department of Post Mortem Communications (certainly _not_ necromancy), and the Lecturer in Recent Runes. Hix had a bite mark in his hat, while the Lecturer... just didn't have a hat. Not anymore. He looked positively undressed.

Hix was notably shaking like a camel would if it had been transplanted to the icy wastes of the Hub, so it was the Lecturer who responded.

"Uh... yes, Archchancellor. Plan "Frog" didn't quite go to plan... although, I do think we had more success this time."

Ridcully vrought his eyes back up from his doodles, while Stibbons just kept drawing.

"How so?"

"Well..."

"It grew warts and croaked." interrupted another voice, from the direction of Hix's pocket.

"Charlie!"

"I'm just relating the facts, Doctor. Seeing as we'll be here all day if _he_'s left to mutter at his own pace. And for the record, Archchancellor, the warts fell off after a couple of seconds, and the croaks were attributable to the emptiness of the pond."

"Well, plan's B through F have failed miserably **(4)**. Anything else on the agenda Archchancellor? Anything else cooked up?"

A murmur ran through the assembled wizards... until they realised that the word "cooked" didn't mean the impending arrival of a food trolley or six. They were a little disappointed over that...

Ridcully looked sideways. "Stibbons?"

"Not yet, Archchancellor. I've got an idea, but I'd need access to Hex. I told you that funding for the personal remote uplink was a good idea!"

"So you did." Ridcully responded in a faintly absent minded way, a way that indicated the conversation was doomed to be forgotten by the end of the day. "But with regards to our current issue, I do have an idea.

"Modo!"

###

After a brief, rather unnerving wander through the corridors (_whose_ Baggage were they running away from again?), Fourweed found himself looking at quite a sturdy door. It was boarded over, complete with a sign reading "Not to be used in any circumstances. This is IMPORTANT". The wizards, particularly Ridcully, were giving the door nervous looks, so it was rather a surprise when Modo, the University's gardener/every other odd job dwarf, removed the boards to reveal... a bathroom?

"Never thought I'd be seeing this place again." muttered Ridcully, as he signalled Dr. Hix to retreat to the corner behind them and keep watch. Elsewhere along their route, other wizards were doing the same and generally hoping that _they_ wouldn't be cursed with the attention of "the Lady" in one of her bad moments. Was it PMT or something that caused her to be so malicious at times? Or was it something else?

...And how were they supposed to know anyway? Since when did _wizards_ know _anything_ about the opposite gender, particular the godly specimens? Well, beyond the "myth" that a relationship with a female would drain all of their magic away?

"Modo... do the honours. I don't think I could stomach the notion of going there again. Now, tourist. (Ridcully turned to face Fourweed at this point, letting Modo push past to begin his pipe tinkering) Bait. What does your "Baggage" like? And don't answer "wizard", I am really not in the mood!"

Fourweed had a think about it. _Let's see, It likes Wizard... which I can't say... dropping things on my head, eating in general, and particularly..._

"Pigeons." he said. Ridcully did a double take.

"_Pigeons_? How? Does it dive bomb them to death?"

NO, answered the black cloaked skeleton leaning against the wall. Well, it never hurt to be careful, even if you _think_ you aren't going to be needed. Lifetimers have been wrong before. IT EATS THEM WHOLE.

"Pigeons? _Ankh Morpork_ pigeons?"

AND THE REST. POSSIBLY THE DEATH OF PIGEONS AS WELL.

If anything, Ridcully looked even more shaken at that, and Fourweed's subconscious was left with a rather nagging feeling that it had _made a mistake_. A mistake it was determined not to admit to, so it kept its Death block up anyway. Meanwhile, Modo had just toggled a brass lever labelled "organ interlock". With a flourish unexpected of such a figure, he produced a bar of soap from the recesses of his overalls, placed it on the waiting shelf, and his work was done.

"Call me when you're finished." he announced, as he passed Ridcully (pointy hat bumping the Archchancellor's nose in the process) and disappeared down the corridor.

"So, just what are we doing here?" asked a confused Fourweed. "I understand that you're worried about the Baggage, I'll admit it worries me at times too, but a bathroom?"

Ridcully stared at him. "Haven't you heard of Bloody Stupid Johnson before?"

"Bergholt Stuttley Johnson? Yes, my guidebook mentions him, but I don't see how-"

"Oh, I'm sure you do. If your guide mentions the barest _hint_ of Johnson's talent, then you'll understand. The Great Hall's organ is another of his, and _the two are connected_."

"Uh..." _Connected? _Fourweed's conscious mind thought. _How is that possible?_

_Search me, not my department_, answered his subconscious, and went back to skeleton blanking.

"Right, Baggage bait!" Ridcully plucked a pigeon from thin air. Right on cue, the Baggage swerved round a nearby corner and locked face on the hapless bird, just in time to see it lobbed into the waiting door. Snapping its lid, the Baggage followed.

SLAM!

"HIX!" shouted Ridcully from his position against the door, shoulder bracing it against the moment the Baggage had finished with dinner and started looking for _supper_. "PASS IT ON, START THE ORGAN UP!"

Hix looked dumbfounded for a second, speechless that the Baggage had actually fallen for it, but quickly got his wits about himself and... passed it on.

"_By order of Ridcully, start the organ up or be flayed alive!_"

"What?" gasped Fourweed, as the message disappeared down the wizard relay chain.

"Token evil wizard." wheezed the Archchancellor, red in the face from holding the door closed. "In the job description. Now shut up and help keep this damn door shut!"

Guessing now was not the time to argue, Fourweed did as he was told.

...

Skipping the last wizard who was notably slow in responding, the message jauntily ricocheted into the great hall and bounced straight into the ears of the students manning the organ. Realising their life was on the line if they failed to act with all due haste (from Ridcully – apparently Dr. Hix's little embellishments made it right through the chain without incident... even wizards need a laugh on occasion you know), they quickly pulled out all the stops and put the Johnson organ into the newly named "angry wizard" mode. They engaged the afterburner... Released the valves on all of the reserve air tanks... Opened the nitrous oxide cylinder... Activated all three thunderstorm boosters... One of them eyed the toggles marked "squashed toad transformer", decided "what the heck" and threw them as well.

...

Inside the bathroom, the frenzied Baggage came to a halt, midway through the motion of throwing itself at the door. It sensed something was wrong.

...

The students finished making every possible connection that their twisted minds could come up with, and stared at the throbbing pipes in front of them. One of them had a quiet "what the hell are we doing?" moment. Then a cough from Ponder Stibbons, busy staring over their shoulders at the pulsing monstrosity, broke the spell. The central student tenderly reached out and touched a key.

...

The noise from the bathroom stopped abruptly, only to be replaced with the racket of a hurricane stopping by for a friendly visit... an inebriated hurricane midway through a Friday night, that thinks it will be an amusing joke to spawn multiple F5 tornadoes one after the other. A hurricane that feels that thunder and lightning are _so_ last year – how about the full titan percussion band? And hail? Nah, I'd rather chuck icebergs.

Eventually, the students ran out of nerves, the organ ran out of puff, and the bathroom ran out of... whatever it had been throwing around in there. And silence was bliss...

Ridcully released a long breath. "Did we get it?"

_That_, was a bad thing to ask. Anyone who's watched Hollywood **(5)** will know that when someone utters such a line, they deserve what's coming to them.

SMASH!

The door was (almost magically it seemed), transformed from a solid oaken slab, to an equal amount of wood now arranged in the form of a rapidly dispersing cloud of splinters. The Baggage appeared in the heart of it, looking insultingly clean, and not at all happy about it. It glared accusingly at the assembled onlookers, as if to say "Well, what are you going to try _now_?"

Ridcully cleared his throat.

"People, just one thing... _RUN!_"

###

This time, the brief walk through the corridors wasn't so brief... or a walk. The mad dash was in fact over in _less_ time than the earlier trip to the bathroom, and culminated with three wizards (having been joined by a suicidially "how did it go" Stibbons on the way) and a single tourist literally falling into the University library... as for the other wizards, they'd gone missing along the way. Hopefully not eaten, but with sapient pearwood involved you never knew.

"What a weapon that would be!" gasped Dr. Hix, edging a little bit further towards his daily _mandatory_ evil behaviour quota. "Say, you don't think we could capture it? Reproduce it?"

"Ook."

"...Quite right. Although, a few minions isn't really such a high price to pay when-"

"OOK!"

Fourweed looked up, wondering in passing why the glass dome was directly overhead when they were still right beside the wall. More wizard business he guessed.

"Is that a mon-"

A hand suddenly clamped itself over the tourist's mouth. Ridcully's hand.

"Don't say that word." he stated, in a _not at all threatening way_. "We've got enough problems around here as it is, without you driving the Librarian Bursar."

"I don't suppose someone could let me out?" asked the voice previously described as "Charlie", still coming from Dr. Hix's wizardly robes.

Hix, brain clearly elsewhere and trusting the body would behave itself, idly reached into his cavernous pockets and withdrew… a skull? His hands moved to place it on the nearest desk, and being on autopilot, they aimed for a rather unsanitary looking pool of… slime next to the oversized pile of banana skins **(6)**. Then, a movement that Fourweed's suspicious subconscious _tried_ to veto… only for the eyes to ignore it and release the information _past_ the censor. The skull _chattered_.

Fourweed shivered, watching as Hix dropped it on top of a nearby pile of books, and following a five second late afterthought, laid an open manuscript in front. And then something was obstructing his view, something that was best described as a walking red shag carpet with limbs, the odd patch of black wrinkly skin, and a perpetual grin up top.

"Ook!"

"He means hello." translated Ridcully, as Fourweed involuntarily stepped back and took in the newcomer. An orang-utan. Clutching a book. …Well, if ever there was an image for dissonance, that was probably it.

"Ook?"

"Another tourist, Librarian. But no time for that now. You know what's outside, don't you? Any ideas?"

"…Ook?"

"No, that was plan B. Walls of bullsh… _dung_ only served to encourage it."

"Ook?"

"Plan D. The demons didn't want to come. Sent us a note saying how busy Hell was nowadays, and they'd drop in a few months time if we made an _appointment_."

"Lazy blighters if you ask me." muttered the skull, still reading. "Course I wouldn't say that if they were _around_…" **(7)**

The Librarian peered at the skull, gave another "Ook" and shrugged. And then...

"Ook?"

"No, the thing wasn't _that_ hungry. It's off for cleaning. _Someone_ covered it with oil."

"The joints were squeaking..." muttered Hix defensively.

"So what was the colony of mice doing? The one conveniently held in a cage right next to me?"

Hix opened his mouth for a reply, he really did, but a smash from outside drew everyone's attention back to where it belonged.

"Do you reckon the .303 bookworms eat Sapient Pearwood?" asked Stibbons, referring to the most dangerous of magical library wildlife (at least until you ventured into L-Space). Ridcully looked thoughtful.

"It's worth a try. After all, what are books but processed wood? And what is the Baggage but processed wood?"

"Ook."

"Well, I suppose so. But since when was _malevolence_ an element?"

The door shook as something with rather more mass than it had any right to, slammed into it. One could only assume it had filled up on wizard, and we all know how few of them are of the "slight" persuasion.

"I resent that remark!"

_Soorrry_ (Not... and I'd better watch my mouth before the wizardly sixth sense catches any more).

Fourweed looked blankly at the Archchancellor, fuming and quite possibly visibly smoking as well.

"Someone mind telling me what a .303 bookworm is?" he asked.

"Yes, actually we do." The Archchancellor snapped back, turning to the Librarian.

"So where's the largest colony of the blighters?" he asked, amidst another smash from the door. The Orang-utan looked thoughtful, and a little hesitant to boot.

"Ook."

"Don't give me that! Do you really want to let that thing wander around in here?"

"Ook." The Librarian answered firmly, folding his arms across that barrel chest.

"Don't you care about the students no doubt lost in aisle 49?"

"Ook." The students could go to hell apparently. And they could go safe in the knowledge that the last vestiges of Astfgl's home of the damned bureaucracy had been (hopefully) swept away in favour of the more traditional damnation.

None of this mattered to the Archchancellor. What mattered was getting the stubborn Librarian to budge. Luckily, there was a trump word. If saying the M-word (you know the one I mean) was a berserk button that would result in you trying to figure out how your face was in Dolly Sisters and your legs were in Quirm, then this other one was the berserk button that would leave your pieces scattered about several _planets_. Fortunately for any regular visitor, there was a simple solution; give the Librarian another target.

Ridcully looked slyly in the Librarian's direction. No expert at reading primate faces (yes, that _possibly_ includes humans – ask the God of Evolution next time you visit Mono Island... just don't expect a straight answer. He probably doesn't remember himself.), but Fourweed got the impression that the orang-utan looked... suspicious.

"Well then," the Archchancellor said with a helping of mock regret, "I guess we'll have to pull out. Shame. I always thought the books here deserved a better fate than rotting inside a sapie-"

"OOK!"

That did it. Threaten to harm books, and you'd better start with those funeral arrangements. This is obviously worse than threatening to _read_ books – that'll just get you a quick exit with a shower of banana skins and irate ook's to show you the way out. Serves you right for wearing the print out with your eyes.

"I _knew_ you'd come round! So, where are they?"

Scowling to the extent that the rest of his facial features had to make do with the mere five percent of bare skin left, the Librarian stormed off. Stibbons followed, carefully. At some distance. Ridcully followed too, a great deal closer, and dragging a tourist by the ear. Dr Hix... was left struggling to pick up Charlie, who didn't want to leave his reading when it was just getting so interesting.

"So what is a .303 bookworm?" wondered Fourweed, dragging his guidebook from a pocket.

_The Ms. Barkers Book of Faux Facts – Travel Edition, has this to say on the subject of the .303 bookworm._

Ever been in a library? Yes? Well, did you ever hear a noise roughly comparable to "Munch Munch EEEK!"? No? Then count yourself lucky, because you've never had the misfortune to be in the vicinity of the .303 bookworm.

Everyone assumes that the God of Evolution was involved with this one. Bookworms in general, eat books. But in _magical_ libraries, the books have other ideas and _eat the worms_. Of course, this tends to happen only when the supply of knowledge seeking humans has been a little erratic of late, but nonetheless, bookworms are hard to find in a library such as the one at the Unseen University. Regular bookworms anyway. .303 bookworms on the other hand...

The .303 bookworm has evolved (been _forced_ to evolve) to eat its meals as quickly as possible. It wouldn't be fair to call them pigs, unless you've seen a pig down an entire trough in three seconds flat... this being the pig about one and a half inches long. The bookworm will much its way through an entire bookcase so fast, that it shoots from the far end in a manner to make you start looking for the gonne. _Don't_ get in their way.

It has been repeatedly advanced as a proposal, to catch a number of these little creatures and set them loose in the military headquarters of any hostile Klatchian nation. This proposal has been considered, but Patrician Havelock Vetinari of Ankh Morpork has made it quite clear that such an action will not be tolerated. Cruelty to animals, he says. It isn't quite clear whether he's talking about the bookworm, or the affected military officials.

###

The Librarian soon came to a halt by a heavy red curtain, sealing off what, from the little that was visible out here, looked like just another aisle between bookcases. Again, the Librarian hesitated...

"Ook." he said, not turning to face the others but conveying a certain steely "you will do what I say." Even Ridcully didn't argue. He was Archchancellor of the university, but the Librarian ruled the library. Only a fool would see otherwise.

"Why?" asked Stibbons, clearly put out by the latest incomprehensible-to-Fourweed ook.

"Ook." The Librarian wasn't giving up any ground.

"That didn't answer the question. What are you hiding back there?"

"Ook." Even Fourweed got that one. _Drop it_.

"I was just aski-"

"OOK!"

For those who don't speak orang-utan, and are also not bound by Librarian of Time and Space code, I'll relate to you just what the Librarian is so concerned about. But it mustn't go any further, got it?

There exists... if that is the right word, a strange convergence of incompatible dimensions that somehow ignores the fact that it just shouldn't exist, and does so anyway. Linking together every library, book shop, and badly tidied, _way out of control_ personal book collection, it serves, essentially, as the nexus of knowledge. The focus of fact... and yes, fiction. It is, if you will, the _centre of learning_. But you can call it L-Space.

L-Space protrudes itself into every reality where there are books... and a few where there aren't, it seems to have no problem manifesting a little doorway to places that, for reasons of nostalgia (so the business tycoons say), never moved on from papyrus. Wander into any good library or second hand bookstore, take a wrong turn and... where am I again? Probably about six feet from Death, if you're wondering, because to the unprepared, L-Space is _fatal_. Even if you manage to avoid the distracting babble, and the dreaded clichés, that doesn't mean the humble plot twist won't get you from behind. Yes, L-Space is _weird_.

...And just inside this, not that the Librarian cares to reveal its existence, is where the Unseen University's _biggest_ colony of .303 bookworms has foolishly set up shop. Ponder Stibbons will have to make do with believing that they've set themselves up in the secret pornography aisle (what else could the Librarian logically be hiding? Let's just hope he doesn't sneak in for a look later).

Fourweed stealthily reached out a hand, seeking to peer round the curtain's edge. It didn't get very far, thanks in no small part to a certain steely grip, found at the end of a certain steely arm.

"Ook" said the Librarian warningly, and let go. The tourist rubbed his wrist, idly wondering whether the orang-utan had a vice hidden up his sleeve...

Ridcully snorted.

"Right, let's get this show on the road!" He produced another pigeon from... wherever his hand moved to in that blur of motion. Right on cue, the library door, still visible at the far end of the aisle, slammed open.

The Baggage slowly flapped in, previously unnoticed knotholes peering round in search of prey. They fell upon something, a skull. And next to the skull...

"ZZZzzzz."

The Baggage, curious, flapped over to stare at the sleeping wizard's face. It stuck out a tongue, quite a small one, but one positively dripping saliva. Quite ignored by the marauding sapient pearwood, the skull cringed and rocked slightly, out of the line of drool.

"ZZZzzzz."

Now the Baggage clashed its lid a few times, visibly savouring the prospect of waking the wizard up to see just what was _in his face_.

"ZZZzzzz."

The Baggage paused. That impossible tongue reached out and just touched the wizard's forehead. It waited.

"ZZZzzzz."

Nothing. What had this wizard been drinking, to knock him out this cold? This was no fun! Where was the joy in a wizard who couldn't be terrorised? Taking back to the air, it gained altitude and looked for another target.

...Behind it, Hix stealthily opened an eye and winked at the small party waiting by the entrance to L-Space. But his survival instincts didn't let him go any further, certainly not so far as to wipe the spittle running down his forehead. That Baggage was still very much aware of its surroundings...

Surroundings that included, several aisles away **(8)**, a few figures... one of which was holding a _pigeon!_

"Ready?" growled Ridcully, as the Baggage began its high speed dive.

Fourweed just managed to get a "Ready for what?" out, before the Librarian rudely grabbed him and flung him to the side, the tourist landing roughly next to a sprawled Stibbons who had suffered the same fate at the hands of the Archchancellor.

Ridcully watched the Baggage approach with grim resolution. He was _not_ going to flinch, not in _his_ university! What was the Baggage but another piece of Sapient Pearwood that had even less manners than Rincewind's Luggage? It was roughly equal in importance with that dog, that curious mongrel that always seemed to be getting fed every time it wandered onto the University campus... unless it brought Foul Ol' Ron with it.

Anyway, it can safely be assumed that such thoughts were at least partially responsible for Ridcully's next line.

"Here, Boy!" he shouted, brandishing the bird. "Fetch!" He chucked it through the gap in the curtain, then held firmly onto his hat to avoid it being dragged away in the passing Baggage's jet stream. The curtain parted... and sealed, too fast for Fourweed to note what was behind. Pornography, he assumed...

For an uncomfortably long moment, a moment that stretched on and on and _on_ like a piece of particularly bad news, there was silence. Just how the Librarian liked it. "Silence" was rule 1 of L-Space actually, and as the Baggage was currently _in_ L-Space, one could assume that it was behaving itself...

...On second thoughts, no it wasn't. It would be impossible to describe the sudden cacophony of noise pouring with physical mass from behind the curtain. Nonetheless, in the interest of giving the voice of logic and reason a good kick up the backside, an attempt should be made regardless. The stupid thing needs it anyway, stop it getting too full of itself.

The noise, when boiled down and distilled using a _very_ good chemistry set, was roughly comparable to a still far too concentrated mix of rapid fire "ping", "ping", "crack", "crunch". There may have been the odd "bang" mixed in as well. There _definitely_ was the component of a continuous low growl, one you could bet good money on that it _wasn't_ the bookworms responsible, if only you could find someone both naive and optimistic enough to think otherwise.

The noise gradually receded. Ridcully's head gradually re-emerged from his sound deafening hat.

"Did we get it?"

_Not again!_ When will these people learn? Particularly Ridcully, who's _already _fallen foul of that little pitfall today!

"I'm Archchancellor, I'll have you know. I'm already learned, as per the job description."

...Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut. But that doesn't change the fact that a certain Baggage has just reappeared above a bookcase six aisles down!

"_What?_"

Just look Ridcully **(9)**. ...Following those wise instructions, the Archchancellor did, just in time to duck the very annoyed flying shoebox in the process of dive bombing him. Did I mention L-Space has _three_ entry points in the Unseen University library? Chuck the Baggage in one, and it will just emerge from another. Apparently L-Space wildlife is more scared of it than the other way round. After all, the curiously semi-armoured form of a .303 bookworm happened to be dangling from its lid, and another soon fell with a splat as the Baggage careened into a (formerly) neatly piled set of theoretical thaumotology books.

"OOK!"

The Librarian went, in a word, Bursar. Being hit by three hundred pounds of angry orang-utan isn't something you'd want to happen on your best day, and the Baggage, despite the early sport it had gleaned before its prey started playing tricks on it, was not _having_ a good day. Finding one of said orang-utans on its back, clobbering it, wasn't going to make it any better.

The wizards (and Fourweed – _without_ "encouragement" this time), scarpered. Two aisles and a corner later, and they barrelled out of the exit, Hix in close pursuit. He _failed_ to stop to close the door, but even so, the Baggage was notably slow in following. A few minutes later, visibly unharmed but somehow dishevelled, a long orange arm chucked it out, slammed the door, and barred it. The muffled "Ook" that managed to phase through the solid wood and into the Baggage's... whatever it had for audio receptors... held a considerable resemblance to "good riddance". Any other time, the Baggage would have taken offence... but not today. Today the fear of Librarian was in it, and it wanted easier targets.

...

Were those _footprints_?

###

Lost amongst the bowels of the University (possibly quite literally – the place has a habit of growing as if a living thing; who's to say it's just a metaphor?), two wizards and one tourist stumbled to a wheezing halt in the middle of a junction of dank stone corridors punctuated by the odd door. Somewhere along the way, they'd lost Dr. Hix. Fourweed wondered just where that had happened; as if to answer his question a scream rang out, a long, seemingly never ending scream. Fourweed jumped.

"Is that..?"

"Not quite." Ridcully, recovering rapidly, strolled (or staggered – or something in between) over to a nearby, heavily built door. He opened the little flap at eyeball height.

"SHUT UP!"

The scream didn't. If anything, it just got louder in protest.

"Stibbons, you're the expert here; why didn't that work?"

"To be fair Archchancellor, you did just ask for a suicide."

"Hmm."

Now, to any ordinary mind, that doesn't make any sense. Fourweed, unlike wizards who are as _un_-normal as it is possible to get, has an ordinary mind. Even Narrativium isn't going to stop what he's about to ask, try as it might to hurry the story along to something _interesting_. See, he's already opening that mouth of his.

"So... who's screaming?"

The best way to get to the bottom of a mystery where you _start_ in the deep end, is to try the _basic_ deep end. In other words, a question you're guaranteed to get a straight answer to...

"Ah, now the question you should have asked was _whose scream is it_?"

...Unless you get another question back. It seems that wizards are so skilled at not giving straight answers, that any wordplay lessons they could theoretically teach would rival similar ones given in lawyer training... well, nearly anyway. _No_ _one_ can beat a lawyer. Just ask Mr. Slant.

Ridcully, having given the tourist enough time to mull over these apparently identical-in-all-but-wording questions, continued.

"You see, there was a little... accident a while back. The consequences were a wizard being promoted for innovative thinking, and the transmutation of his scream into a separate entity. That," he indicated in the direction of the door, "is what we've got in there. Now, Stibbons, which corridor do we have to follow?"

Stibbons produced a map through the distinctly _un_magical method of pulling it from his pocket. It made sense, in that any other way would have resulted in a side order of rabbits, confetti and sparkles, i.e. Baggage attracters.

"Uh... go forty paces that-a-way, turn right 90 degrees, go forty paces, turn left one hundred and eighty degrees, walk forty paces, turn right two hundred and seventy degrees, walk forty paces and you're there."

Ridcully did some hurried mental calculations. Something in that spatial awareness challenge just didn't seem right... like the fact that following _those_ directions would put them _right back here_.

"Let me see that!" he said, yanking the map from Stibbons' hands and turning it the other way up.

"Hmm... (mumble mumble) ...and that puts you in... (mumble mumble) ...unless you cut through lecture room 3b, _hah_... (mumble mumble) ...and that leads to the conclusion of "I'll take your word for it"."

Could a map really be that hard to understand? Fourweed didn't think so.

"Mind if I take a look?" he asked, reaching out... and found his wrist intercepted. Instinct treacherously raised eyes to Ridully's own.

"Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards," Ridcully stated, fixing him with a steely, almost otherworldly gaze, "for they are subtle and quick to anger."

...

"...I have no idea why I just said that."

He shook his head and released Fourweed's arm.

"Right, Stibbons, show us the way!"

###

It was a curiously ordinary door. It had a simple wooden frame, and a simple wooden doorknob. What wasn't so simple, were the signs _on_ the door.

"Chair of Experimental Serendipity, Fretwork Teacher, Professor of Virtual Anthropology, Lecturer in Approximate Accuracy..." Fourweed began, and kept on going. Up near the top however, would be the one _we_ recognise. The "Egregious Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography", aka, anywhere that goes out of its way to kill you. It doesn't matter if you're about to be smothered by an avalanche, falling into a bottomless ravine that's just opened up directly beneath you, or just being stalked by yeti. If something's trying to get you and it isn't human (a definition of "human" would be useful here), dwarf, troll or anything else that technically has at least one working brain cell, then this is the department you send your complaints to. (_Yes, I've just had a rather nasty run in with a headless zombie, and I'd just like to know what you are going to do about it..._)

"...So all these people share one office?" asked Fourweed, sceptically, and not at all in on bureaucracy, wizard style.

"Oh no, that would be ridiculous." answered Ridcully, quite reasonably too – had it ended there. But it didn't, and he continued with: "All these titles are shared by one person. _Much_ greater use of space." **(10)**

He pushed open the door and strode in, Fourweed and Stibbons following in his dust with the former wondering just when this assault on his still _fairly_ sane brain would stop.

It was a fairly small room, and the pile of coal in the fireplace suggested someone liked it _hot_. Clutter (there being no other suitable word to describe the vast plethora of _stuff_ strewn about) everywhere you looked, a narrow and uncomfortable bed by the wall on the right. The only other bits of furniture would be a somewhat dented looking desk opposite the bed, a row of shelves along the far wall, and a single rickety wardrobe lurking off in the corner. Someone's old travelling chest had been unceremoniously left up there, lid slightly ajar (and moving, as Fourweed's subconscious noted and subsequently blocked). Amongst the shelves, there may have been a door... but the entire room looked like the hurricane of Johnson's bathroom had stopped by to do a little redecorating, and Fourweed wasn't quite sure. Then, distracted, he caught sight of something on one of the shelves and stealthily tiptoed over for a look.

Ridcully meanwhile, acting on a hunch, moved to the centre of the room, bent down, and peered under the bed.

"Ah, Rincewind, there you are! I _thought_ we were missing someone earlier! Fancy coming out?"

"...no."

_What sort of monster calls itself Rincewind_, thought Fourweed, closing on his target. _Hardly a name to inspire fear in little children_.

"Sure? Anyway, weren't you timetabled for lecture room 3b at the moment?"

Whatever answer might have been forthcoming (probably something about actually being timetabled for skills of evasion practice – it _certainly_ couldn't be anything about room 3b, which only exists in a metaphysical sort of way) was lost as a certain other mystery materialised...

"Tourist, put that back!" the Archchancellor snapped, removing a funny looking glass globe from Fourweed's inquisitive hands and returning it to the dusty shelve. "Don't want you to cause the end of the world as we know it, do we!"

...The mystery of just _how_ Ridcully could manage to _appear_ behind you at a moment's notice, with no warning until he actually spoke. Wizards couldn't teleport... could they?

"Rincewind." Ridcully asked in a congenial tone, back to business "Is the bathroom window still open?" (...or not.)

"I wouldn't know," the voice under the bed answered, "I try not to look."

Scowling, the Archchancellor stalked over to the door in the far wall, and despite it apparently trying to dodge out of his way (_that's_ new), managed to get hold of an evasive doorknob. He flung the door open, the sudden draught spreading paperwork everywhere. From the top of the wardrobe, something sneezed. _Must be mice_, Fourweed's subconscious said to the rest of the brain, even though it damn well knew where the noise had come from.

As Fourweed had sort of suspected, the door opened on to a small bathroom, just as messy as the "office". There was a window too, opening out onto a bright blue sky...

_Hang on_, his subconscious thought to itself, _it's night tim- __**bother!**_ Too late, subconscious, you've missed your chance! _Every_one, including one tourist, is now well aware that there's a beach through there!

"Good." Ridcully said to himself. "I didn't want to have to do this, but-"

Stibbons, looking back out the door into the passage outside on a well timed impulse, yelped and slammed it shut. That made it pretty clear where the Baggage had got to, and the crash of wood meeting wood only made it clearer.

"Will that thing never give up?" Ridcully shouted, even though he knew the answer. He glanced away from the window, just in time to see the Baggage make its dramatic entrance. With a final bash and a shower of cascading wood, it burst into the room. Ridcully hesitated. As the mental gears spun around, and the Baggage licked its rim, he came to a decision.

"Rincewind! Set your Luggage on it!"

Only a snore felt the need to wander into everyone's ear canals. The Luggage, that heavy looking sapient pearwood suitcase sitting precariously on top of the wardrobe, was sleeping like a log. How uncharacteristic of it.

Ridcully stared in disbelief, but only for a moment, because the Baggage was slowly advancing towards him, maximising the time taken for greatest effect.

"Oh, to Hell with it!" (Once again, the Demons covertly watching proceedings from the safety of Hell's Sinnerwatch room didn't take any notice of the instruction, and left the Baggage where it was) He produced _another_ struggling pigeon from wherever the other two had come from (somewhere in the hat, Fourweed thought).

"Here you go Pearwood, nice pigeon, freshly caught!"

He almost absently tossed the poor sacrificial bird through the window. The Baggage... didn't follow. Knotholes narrowed, it could only be described as "suspicious". And honestly, who could blame it? After that jape with the Johnson and that bash with the bookworms, anyone would be getting suspicious. Its impossible gaze swept the room, alighting with the lightest of touches on each personage in turn (and eliciting a muffled whimper where it met the underside of the bed).

For a moment, the wizards thought that "their cunning plan" had failed miserably... but then the desire for "_just one more pigeon_" won out, and the Baggage disappeared after it.

"Gotcha, you blighter!" Ridcully shouted, fist in the air, as he slammed the window shut.

###

...Way, _way_ back in time, on a small tropical island inhabited by countless terrified individual shrubs, insects and the odd yet to be perfected cockroach, something popped from a hole in the air. It was closely followed by another, more oblong _thing_... and eaten.

Sitting under a nearby spectacled palm and tinkering with the wheeled millipede mk. V, the God of Evolution looked up. He watched as the box hiccupped, spat out a few grey feathers, and realised where it was. _Then_, it got mad.

Three unique birds later (Cargo Beak bird, Lighthouse bird and Dodo) later, and the God watched it flap off across the horizon, in the rough direction of Cori Celesti and Dunmanifestin.

_How curious_, he thought, and got back to fixing another bent axle. And that, was that...

...

Actually, that would be how history would have you know it; a record of dubious factual reliability. Because there _were_ consequences of this little act, two of them.

First, would be the little issue of Sapient Pearwood. Everyone _believes_ it to be a product of the Mage Wars, but what really happened was, on one of his bi-millennium holidays, the God of Evolution would remember that funny wooden box, and do a little experiment. He succeeded only too well, and nearly got eaten by the vengeful tree... which is _nothing_ compared to what happened to the next lumberjack to wander through the future Forest of Skund.

And the other consequence? Well, you didn't really think that _all_ those Gods died out from lack of belief, did you?

###

...And back in the modern day, Ridcully stared in disbelief that the Baggage had actually fallen for it. Again. Some quiet little voice of reason spoke up in the back of his mind, reminding him that there would almost certainly be consequences of flinging sapient pearwood into the past, but the "inner wizard" fought back with "No, because we'd have heard about them by now. It's in the _past_, isn't it?"

The Luggage gave another yawn, before raising itself on hundreds of tiny legs, hopping nimbly from the wardrobe and zigzagging its way over to the bed. Sod's law in full effect; it would wake up _now_. It hiccupped; a small, round object bounced from the lid and rolled to Stibbons' feet. He picked it up.

"So that's where it got too..." And then he noticed something...

Ridcully, ever one to tempt fate, dropped another line. A line right up there with "did we get it".

"Well, that was surprisingly easy."

"Ahem."

Stibbons coughed, drawing Ridcully's attention to the Baggage in the doorway, hot, bothered, and _very annoyed_ _at having to sit through most of history to get __**back**__ to this point_. It snarled its way violently into the room.

Ridcully looked around, assessing options. The Luggage was back to snoring, Rincewind was still under the bed, the tourist was _never_ going to be any help, trying the window trick again could only end one way... maybe Stibbons had a way out of this mess...

He did. That little thing just vomited by the Luggage just so happened to be a _prototype_ for his "personal remote Hex uplink". He quickly made use of the fact.

"Hex? Can you hear me?"

+++ I CAN +++ the magical think-tank responded, its "voice" appearing in Fourweed's head without the need of "primitive audio receptors". +++ I HAVE BEEN FOLLOWING EVENTS +++

"Can you get rid of that thing?"

There was a slight, unwelcome pause, which the Baggage took advantage of in order to grab hold of Ridcully's robes. Letting go again, or rather, letting go again _before_ the attached Archchancellor disappeared down whatever passed for the Baggage's throat, didn't seem to be on the agenda. Death took the opportunity to phase into the room through one of the walls, misjudging his entrance angle and re-materialising with his feet under the bed ("Eek!").

+++ YES +++

"Then do so! By any means!"

There was, to Fourweed, the sudden sense of flying through the air, and the sudden vision of a graveyard. To everyone else, there was no such sense... but the tourist _did_ vanish. Not the Baggage (which paused, confused), the tourist... and a portion of the desk. Into the space so recently vacated, something else emerged with a "pop". Two something's. One of them took offence.

"Vot happened? Vot is ze meaning of zis?" the pointy toothed bat demanded, metamorphosing into a tall thin figure garbed entirely in long black robes. At his side, the accompanying hunchbacked shape picked itself off the floor. Ridcully stared.

"Was this part of the plan?" he whispered to a pleased looking Stibbons.

"Yes, Archchancellor. Sapient Pearwood must always follow its master, so we've sent the tourist... elsewhere. Hex did have to bring _something_ back to compensate. Remember when we sent Rincewind to the Agatean Empire?"

Ridcully did. So did Rincewind; the bed shuddered. But on the bright side, the Baggage had indeed disappeared. The question was, which undea- _life challenged_ creature was going to meet the Baggage next, and be even more life deficit?

I EXPECT I'LL SOON BE FINDING OUT answered Death, leaving the room. **(11)**

###

**Publishers Notes**

So, it seems that our researchers were having trouble finding the next bit of the Ankh Morpork manuscripts, because Fourweed left the University in a completely different direction to the front gates (or that "secret" Scholars Entry and its loose bricks). But there _are_ more Ankh Morpork entries, so we can only assume he eventually gets back. The next chronological entry meanwhile, would appear to be Uberwald. You can imagine how _that_ is going to turn out – let's just say there are scarier things in Uberwald than rabid werewolves.

We've had a small amount of correspondence regarding certain details in the last release, specifically, the mentions of the Ankh Morpork Watch as containing Day and Night sections. As many of our more learned readers will know, these two organisations were recently merged, along with the palace guard, into the City Watch.

The discrepancy can be explained thus; Fred Colon and Nobby Nobbs, the two officers seen in the last article, are members of the old Night Watch, and sometimes have difficulty remembering this change. To be fair, they mostly stick to Night Watch duties anyway, where it is mostly quiet.

**Footnotes**

**(1)** To be perfectly honest, this was a little white lie at the time Fourweed's edition of the guide was published. The wizards have a rather unusual punishment for people, such as researchers, who annoy them. They basically turn them into frogs for a period… just how long this period is, no-one seems to know. We _have_ seen some researchers back after this ordeal, but they are strangely unwilling to talk about the experience.

At the time, the information was supressed to avoid worrying the general public. This, should no longer be necessary: let us reiterate, they _only do this to people who annoy them_. The researchers, to be fair, were probably asking for it. Keep on the good side of the wizards, and you'll be fine.

Since then, our researchers have been going in covertly, or bribing the librarian with bananas. Most of the information thus retrieved relates to the library itself, so we are reliant on this sequence of articles to give us glimpses of the remainder of the University's interior.

**(2)** Naturally. Fourweed's subconscious had woken up by this point, and you already know what _that_ means.

**(3)** The number "eight" is a rather risky one to say out loud if you happen to be a wizard, because the inhabitants of the Dungeon Dimensions have an inexplicable attraction to the word. In the Unseen University, magical safeguards are in place to prevent its utterance from leading to a terminal case of... whatever nasty specimen you've managed to attract _this_ time, but most of the wizards are still wary of using it. Elsewhere, they have to find _other_ ways to get their meaning across, most notably "four and four" or "seven plus one".

Being of the new crowd, Ponder Stibbons is less superstitious about such things, but even he needs to be careful. Bel-Shamaroth may be gone, but who knows what nasty slipped in to fill its place...

**(4)** They hadn't even bothered with a plan A. It never works after all.

**(5)** Blatant misspelling here. Quite strange, considering it's been used correctly before.

**(6)** …Slime? Oh no, not slime at all. Try… mon- _Orang-utan_ saliva.

**(7) **Actually, Charlie would do well to watch his mouth even _now_, because one of Hell's main attractions is the "Sinnerwatch room", and it's getting pretty crowded as word gets round of the events at Unseen University. _101 ways to torture your boss_, on the other channel, just can't compete with _that_ sort of entertainment (popular though it may be at other times).

**(8)** This figure seems to have changed a few times. Perhaps the University Library is one of _those_, that quietly rearranges itself when no one's looking.

**(9)** Normally, we'd pass this sort of thing off as rubbish, pure and simple, but these are _wizards_ the author is dealing with. And remember where our researchers retrieved the manuscripts from. It's not entirely unknown for this sort of thing to happen in _magical_ books. Just be thankful that the article hasn't started verbally answering your questions as the original manuscripts have ours. Now we can't get the damn thing to shut up! So, to save you the misery of such an experience, we've made sure that _your_ copy is as distinctly _un_-magical as it is possible to be. And for no extra charge; aren't we good to you!

**(10)** And therein lies the problem with modern Ankh Morpork. What businessman is going to go through all the hassle of sending out trolls with vacancy notices, pour hours of time that could be better spent with in reception with Shelly into trawling through all five responses, put up with the _sight_ of outsiders during those tedious interviews, and then, assuming he's gracious enough to actually take someone on, watch the nuisance take all that training to the enemy when they, being disrespectful youngsters, jump ship?

...No, I've got a much better idea; Muggins in sales can do it, and be grateful that he's being given the opportunity to work overtime – who said anything about extra pay? Look, Muggins, if you don't like it... well, I was planning on streamlining the company anyway.

**(11)** Before anyone starts thinking that Death appears to have forgotten something, we should point out that Death _never_ forgets that sort of thing. But there are a lot of other creatures living in Uberwald other than the undead, and besides, even the undead have souls. They're just selfish little things that refuse to let their attached bodies go, clinging on all the harder when the anthropomorphic skeletons wander in for a look. A challenge, but nothing that can't be resolved with a silver bullet, wooden stake... or a firework. And failing that, there's a certain cat living in the Ramtops with a taste for vampire.

Even the most determined soul will give up when faced with an eternity of staring at someone's bowels from the inside...


End file.
